


An Unexpected Party

by lostinscotland



Series: SuperLeverage! [2]
Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Eliot plays field medic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Outside POV on Eliot, Pre-Series, by which I mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinscotland/pseuds/lostinscotland
Summary: Dean runs into Eliot again in the aftermath of a hunt gone sideways. Eliot takes him to his safe house and patches him up, and they end up entertaining a series of unexpected and (mostly) unwelcome visitors. Well, it's better than hospital TV.Second in the series of meetings between the two.





	An Unexpected Party

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist the title. There will be no other references, but it fit and I had to do it.
> 
> So this story is a fun example of what happens when you have an idea you like, but realize there’s no real plot. This chapter is the original idea, and the following two chapters are the result of maniacal plotting intended to give the story some action and tension and all those things writing teachers talk about. Whether or not that worked remains to be seen.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer- my medical knowledge is limited to band-aids and diabetes. I researched what I could, but I also wrote most of this during an internet and power outage, so whatever. Anyway, this is Dean we’re talking about, so even if Eliot is technically the one administering first aid, I’m going to blame any and all medical inaccuracies on Dean. And probably Dr. Sexy, MD, which I assume is where he gets his info.

2004

The next time Dean sees Eliot, he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

He’s just fought a Black Dog, after all. He killed the bastard, but it very nearly killed him first. He’s bleeding from over a dozen gashes, ranging in severity from “damn dog scratched me” to “should I be able to see my liver?” and he’s not sure how much blood is actually left in his body.

Does blood loss even cause hallucinations? Do Black Dogs? Dean’s not sure, but it seems the most likely reason for Eliot’s sudden reappearance in his life.

If it’s not really him, Dean should probably be more concerned about letting himself collapse right into the guy just outside a bar, but really. He just isn’t. Even a fake Batman is preferable to bleeding out by himself.

“Whoa, buddy.” The voice sounds right. So, Eliot is very probably real. That’s good enough for Dean. He does what he can to walk towards the car with the man supporting him, and doesn’t argue when Eliot helps him into the passenger’s side of Dean’s Impala before sliding behind the wheel. He dimly wonders how exactly Eliot knew which car was his, and when he managed to lift his keys, but those are insignificant details. Batman can do shit. Everyone knows that. No need to bother about the why.

Dean drifts for a while, but eventually focuses on Eliot’s voice. It’s almost as angry as when the man was accusing him of being a kidnapper and possible child molester, and that just doesn’t seem fair. Dean hasn’t done anything. He won the damn fight, okay? And it isn’t even Eliot’s car he’s bleeding all over.

“Dammit, stay with me, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Dean mumbles, rousing to address the indignity. He shifts in his seat and presses a hand to his side, where the pain seems the most focused. And it doesn’t feel right. His hand is suddenly sticky with blood, yes, but that doesn’t feel like flesh he’s holding, not even mangled flesh trying to spill out his insides. Why…? Oh. Apparently Eliot’s sacrificed one of his spare shirts as a makeshift bandage. It’s probably not a great sign that he didn’t notice that happening.

“No?” Eliot asks, throwing him a sidelong glance. “Because I thought a grown-ass man wouldn’t have so much trouble not getting killed. Seriously, what did I tell you about that?”

Dean has to think about that for a long moment. “Don’t?”

“Exactly. So you hang in there until I can get you patched up, you hear me? I don’t wanna have to deal with a body right now.”

“You could’ve just let the Black Dog eat me, then.”

“I didn’t let it tear you up, did I?”

The guy needs to stop making sense. “Shut up.”

Eliot snorts, but he seems satisfied that Dean’s not about to die right then. Dean’s trying to decide if the silence is peaceful or annoying when the car stops.

“This isn’t the hotel,” Dean says after blinking out the window for a minute.

“Real observant there. How are you still alive?” Eliot asks as he smoothly exits the car. A moment later, he’s opening the door for Dean and helping him to his feet. “Can you walk? It ain’t far, but I’d rather not have to carry you.”

“I can walk,” Dean grumbles, though he leans heavily on Eliot once he’s out of the car. He tries to focus on his surroundings, but he gets distracted wondering if Eliot would actually be able to carry him. On the one hand, Dean’s got a few inches on the other guy and is probably just as built. On the other hand, Batman.

Then he’s picturing Eliot in a Batman suit carrying him around in a goddamn bridal carry, and he can’t help the giggle-snort he lets out. Okay, so maybe he’s lost more blood than he can really afford. That’s clearly the only explanation for whatever the hell his head is doing.

“Dammit, Dean!” Eliot’s fuming then, hurrying them inside the house and easing Dean down onto a bed. And that’s good. Sleep sounds good.

It feels like only seconds later when Eliot’s slapping him awake, which is just rude. Dean grumbles and bats the man’s hands away, then carefully levers himself up into a sitting position.

“Drink this.” A cup is thrust into his hand, and Dean takes it mostly by reflex. There’s orange juice inside, which is honestly a bit more wholesome than he tends to prefer his beverages, but he drinks it without complaining. Eliot seems very insistent.

By the time he’s finished the glass, Eliot’s assembled all kinds of first aid supplies: scissors, tape, needles and syringes of various sizes, gloves, surgical thread (none of the dental floss Dean’s used to using either, but the real stuff), tweezers, a few things he’s not sure about, and enough gauze and bandages to completely mummify him.

“This is gonna hurt,” Eliot warns him, as if he doesn’t already feel like he’s literally coming apart at the seams. “So don’t fight me, okay? I’m gonna numb as much of it as I can, but I’m not equipped to put you out medically and I don’t want to risk further injury just knocking you out.”

“Dude, your bedside manner sucks,” Dean says, but he appreciates the thought all the same. Being unconscious for this probably would be better, and somehow, after only meeting him once almost eight months ago, Dean would trust Eliot to patch him up in that state. But he’s right, that won’t work, so Dean will try to behave. Try.

“So tell me about the Black Dog,” Eliot says as he takes the scissors to Dean’s shirt. It’s pretty shredded already, but it’s sticking to him in places and he’d rather not move his arms anyway.

“Bastard was tearing up the townsfolk, so I came out here to track it down and stop it. And I did.” Dean flashes a triumphant grin, then winces as Eliot pulls his shirt free of one of the wounds. “Didn’t expect it to be quite so big. Or fast.”

“Your first one? Don’t remember you mentioning it in your master class last year.” Eliot meets his eyes briefly before turning back to his task, though his hands have been busy all the while. Dean takes it back- Eliot’s bedside manner is excellent. The really painful stuff might still be ahead, but he’s keeping Dean engaged while quietly and methodically patching him up, and that’s a thousand times better than sympathy or coddling. Or Dad’s method of patching him up just a little too roughly while lecturing on what he did wrong. He doesn’t think Dad does it on purpose, but this is a nice change all the same.

“Yeah. Known about ‘em for a long time, though. Probably should’ve gone over them with you.” Never let it be said that Dean Winchester is anything but thorough when he’s the one teaching Batman something.

“Yeah, maybe. Haven’t run into a single thing you talked about since then, though. Pretty sure you’re actually bad luck.”

“Hey!”

Eliot grins as he pulls the last of Dean’s shirt free and tosses it in a trash bag, along with the second one he’d used to slow the bleeding on Dean’s side. “You got any evidence to the contrary?”

“I’m still alive,” Dean protests as Eliot crosses the room and returns with a bowl of warm water and a few cloths. “You’re still alive.”

“It’s real cute how you think you have anything to do with that.” Eliot’s dabbing at the wounds now, but Dean’s far too incensed to even process the sensations.

“Dude! You met a ghost last year! Ghosts kill people! You’d totally be dead without me!”

Eliot shrugs. “I ain’t all that easy to kill, kid.”

And no. Just no. Sure, Dean can see what Eliot’s doing, and it’s working, damn it, but no. Batman he may be, but that doesn’t make him impervious to the supernatural.

“I saved your life. That ghost would’ve ripped your heart out without me there. I’d like to see even you recover from that.”

“You’d be surprised the kinds of things you can recover from.” Eliot’s tone is quieter now, more serious, and for a second Dean reads the implications there. But then he watches Eliot pull on a clean pair of gloves and decides this is not the time to let the conversation lose its momentum.

“Look, we can call it square after this, but I totally saved your life. And I am highly offended that you don’t think it counts!”

“You don’t think I saved your life last year, too?” Eliot asks, his smirk making it clear that he’s letting the argument continue for Dean’s sake. Whatever he’s doing to Dean’s skin tingles a bit, but there haven’t been any needles yet. Dean would rather get that bit over with, but he’s realized most of the significant wounds are on his back, and now he’s even more grateful he ran into Eliot. He wouldn’t have had a chance trying to patch himself up on his own.

“You helped,” Dean says, willing to make that concession. “Like you helped today. Maybe you’re the good luck.”

Eliot snorts, and Dean feels a pinch at the gaping wound on his side. A shot? Maybe this is the numbing he was talking about. Dean’s never really had that before, aside from what he could get from drinking. He’ll take it.

“Or,” Eliot says, stepping around so he’s blocking Dean’s view of what he’s doing, “that ghost saved your life, too.”

“From what?” Dean asks, then realizes the answer a second before Eliot says it.

“Me.” And there’s that same sharp smile from last year, all teeth and promise.

But Dean refuses to be intimidated by the guy currently stitching him up. He can feel it a little, but just as a mild tugging. Maybe Eliot’s experience at this should be serving his point, but all Dean’s getting at the moment is the contrast between Eliot’s gentle, unobtrusive methods and Dad’s grittier, “you’ll live” style. “You know, you’re working really hard to tell me you’re so dangerous, but then you’re sitting here stitching me up when it would’ve been so much easier to leave me at the bar. Talk about mixed signals.”

“You shouldn’t be so quick to trust someone who threatened to kill you the last time you met,” Eliot replies, glancing up at him for a second. Then he ties off the final stitch and moves on to the next wound.

Dean’s got a retort forming on his tongue when his phone rings. Eliot huffs at him as he digs it out of his pocket, but then goes back to his work while Dean answers.

“Hello?”

“Dean,” Dad’s voice comes over the phone. “You finish the hunt yet?”

“Yeah. It was a Black Dog. Slippery son of a bitch, but I got it.”

“Good. Listen, I need you back in Virginia to work a case with me. You can get here by morning, can’t you?”

“Tomorrow?” Dean asks, and Eliot steps back into view, frowning and shaking his head. “I don’t think so, Dad. I got torn up pretty good, I think I need a few days to lay low.”

“You patch yourself up?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s not sure why, but mentioning Eliot doesn’t seem like the best idea.

“Then get over here. I’ll take a look at you, but I need you on this.”

Eliot, reading the conflict on his face, shakes his head again. “I will tie your ass to this bed if I have to.”

“Who was that?”

“Dad, look, just give me a few days,” Dean protests, and then Eliot’s stripping off his gloves and snatching the phone from his hand. Dean tries to grab it back, because no way will this go well, but Eliot’s halfway across the room with the phone at his ear, and Dean can’t quite get up.

“I’m guessing he learned how to undersell from you, but your boy’s in no condition to be going anywhere for the next week or so. That hell beast tore him to ribbons, and I’m still not done stitching him up. Now you can come look in on him if you want to, but he ain’t going anywhere until I say he’s ready.”

There’s a long pause, and Dean’s resigning himself to Eliot and his father actually murdering each other and idly wondering if he’ll have to fight whoever’s left when Eliot rattles a location into the phone and hangs up.

No, there’s absolutely no way this will end well.

“He’s on his way,” Eliot says calmly, handing back the phone and then pulling on another pair of gloves.

“What just happened?” Dean asks, staring at the phone. He’s not really asking Eliot, so he’s not all that surprised when he doesn’t get an answer. Rather than moving again to replace the phone in his pocket, Dean sets it next to Eliot’s supplies and turns his head to look at the other man. “Please don’t murder my dad.”

“Nah, that’d probably slow down your recovery, and I’m invested now.” Eliot grins then, an invitation, and Dean picks the banter back up, though he’s suddenly exhausted. It takes longer than he’d like for Eliot to finish his work, but soon enough he’s being force-fed more liquids (along with a couple pills he chooses not to question) and then shown to a bathroom. Moving still hurts, but he’s pleasantly fuzzy now instead of painfully out of it, so it’s not too big a burden navigating the space.

Eliot’s turned the bed down by the time he gets back, so he sinks onto it gratefully, pausing only to strip off his jeans. Not like he hasn’t slept in them before, but he’s already half-naked, and Eliot doesn’t seem the type to care. He’s not in any condition to fight off intruders anyway.

He’s sinking into sleep when he realizes he’s got freaking Batman watching over him. He’ll definitely have to tell Sammy about this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean wakes to the smell of bacon and is scrambling upright before he remembers why that’s a bad idea. His muttered cursing brings Eliot into the room with a smirk and more importantly, a plate of food. There’s an omelet, jellied toast, and a banana, along with a glass of what Dean supposes to be more orange juice. And it looks delicious, but…

“I smelled bacon,” he protests, giving Eliot his best impression of Sammy’s puppy eyes.

“Eat the fruit first,” Eliot says, unimpressed. “Bacon ain’t ready yet.”

He considers arguing, but he’s suddenly famished, and the food does look good. Eliot sets the plate down on the table where he’d had his supplies set up the night before and hands Dean a fork. “Take it easy, okay? You need to eat, but that’s no reason to tear your damn stitches out.”

Dean can’t argue with that, so he moves gingerly to the edge of the bed to reach his breakfast while Eliot disappears again. He’s finished the banana (mostly to get it out of the way and because he’s a little afraid Eliot will actually withhold bacon until it’s done) and is halfway through the omelet when Eliot returns with his own breakfast, and, thank god, a plate of bacon. Dean immediately reaches for it, and gets his hand smacked for his trouble, but then Eliot’s forking over several pieces, so Dean takes the win.

They eat in silence for the most part, with Eliot asking a few questions about his condition and how he slept. Just as Dean’s wondering how to get more bacon from the plate (it’s right there, so Eliot obviously meant it to be eaten, but he’s being surprisingly stingy about it), Eliot rises quickly to his feet and leaves the room without a word. Dean hears the door opening, and the tense initial words between Eliot and his father, but since he doubts he can get out there to head off any potential bloodshed, he takes the opportunity to cram a few more pieces of bacon into his mouth.

He’s still chewing when Eliot walks into the room, his body language tense but still confident, with John Winchester at his heels. And this is definitely John, not Dad; for all that they’re the same person, Dean’s never been able to ignore that shift between John the Hunter and Just Plain Dad. A lot of the time he’s still John the Hunter when it’s just him and his sons, but that’s not something Dean chooses to think about when he can help it.

“Dad,” he says through a mouthful of bacon, and John cracks a reluctant grin in spite of his obvious discomfort with Eliot’s presence. Eliot, for his part, rolls his eyes at Dean’s manners.

“Dean. How you doing?” He walks a little further into the room, obviously cataloguing the entire place in a way Dean really should’ve done.

Dean shrugs, then grimaces as the movement tugs at several of his injuries. Eliot growls a little, and John’s eyes snap back and forth between the two before he circles behind Dean for a better look at his back.

“That many injuries, or did your friend just go overboard with the gauze?”

And no, this can’t go on. “Dad, this is Eliot. We met last year- he helped me out with that haunting in upstate New York. Eliot, this is my dad, John Winchester. Please, please don’t kill each other.”

John doesn’t really look convinced that Eliot’s a credible threat, which Eliot obviously notices and seems to find amusing. Still, with a little nod to Dean, he steps forward and offers his hand.

“Good to meet you, John,” he says. They shake hands, quickly enough that Dean thinks they may have somehow skipped the typical macho “who’s gonna crush who” thing, and then Eliot smiles. “I’m Eliot Spencer.” Eliot had never given Dean his full name, but he’s looking at John like he expects it to mean something.

“Spencer.” John frowns a little, and his body language changes; he’s on the alert suddenly, but also skeptical. “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t think you were in the game, though.”

“I ain’t. But I ain’t in the business of letting kids turn into corpses for no reason, either, and your boy here was about five seconds away from that.”

At that John turns back to Dean, and he seems to take a closer look at his injuries. “Well, I appreciate you looking after him. You mind if we have a minute alone?”

Eliot shakes his head, then gathers up the remains of their breakfast and leaves the room. John sits next to Dean on the bed, keeping his eyes on the doorway Eliot disappeared through.

“C’mon, get dressed. We gotta go.”

“What? No, Dad, you heard Eliot last night. I’m not up to moving much yet.”

“Dean.” John’s voice is urgent now, and he’s shifting more into his Dad persona, which is unexpected but always nice. He leans closer and lowers his voice. “That guy is trouble. I’ve heard of him, and if he’s who he says he is, then you are definitely not safe here.”

“Or it’s the safest place for me,” Dean points out, not really happy about where this conversation is headed. He knows Eliot’s dangerous; the guy had been ready to kill him last year, after all, and he’d reinforced the point plenty last night. But he can be dangerous without posing a threat to Dean, and Dean’s pretty sure that’s where they are. Maybe not friends exactly, but friendly at least. Last year, after Dean had helped him, the man had bought him a beer and then given him a share of the money he’d made bringing that girl home safe (and it had been a shit ton of money, too). So that’s where the obligation should’ve ended. But then last night, when Dean had stumbled into him, bleeding and injured, Eliot had taken him back to his house, stitched him up, fed him, and argued with his dad for him. He doesn’t really think Eliot’s going to turn around and stab him in the back now.

John doesn’t seem so convinced. “You know the things people think we’ve done? All the cops and civilians who think we’re out there killing people when we’re really putting down ghosts and witches and all kinds of evil? Spencer? He’s actually done all that shit. And he’s done it to people. Humans. And you’re good, son, but you can’t take him. I don’t know if I could.”

“I know,” Dean says quietly, then sighs at the look on his dad’s face. “Last year when we met? There was a little girl gone missing, remember? He found me there, and he thought I’d taken her, and he wasn’t happy about it. So yeah, I know I can’t take him. But I don’t need to, okay? And look, maybe once I’ve recovered, he can help me improve. Honestly, Dad, having a guy like him as an ally can only be a good thing.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but then Eliot strolls in with a glass of water in his hand. “If y’all are done arguing about whether or not I plan to murder you both, I wanna look at those bandages.” He hands the glass to Dean, then produces a pair of gloves from his pocket and pulls them on. “By the way, no, I’m not planning on killing either of you.” And without bothering to look at either of them for a response, he steps to Dean’s side, opposite John, and begins to lift one of the bandages.

The next minute passes in a silent staring contest between Dean and his father, complete with eyebrow quirks, headshakes, frowns, and glares, while Eliot meticulously checks Dean’s bandages. John keeps looking at him as if waiting for him to stab one of them, but eventually he just sighs and pulls a gun from his waistband.

Dean’s immediately on the alert; pulling a gun on Eliot had not ended well when he’d tried it. And he can sense Eliot’s attention on them, but the other man doesn’t move any closer, and John only hands the gun to Dean. “I don’t know where yours is right now, but you keep this with you. I don’t want you defenseless, even if you do have yourself a new guardian angel.” He doesn’t quite sneer those last two words, but it’s close. And okay, Eliot and John will never be friends. As long as no one’s getting physical here, Dean will have to be satisfied.

John leaves soon after that, assuring Dean that he’ll call one of his hunter buddies to help with the job in Virginia. Sounds like a werewolf hunt, and Dean’s sorry he’ll miss it, but Eliot glared when he said he wished he could go, so he’s not planning to push that any further. Another week with Eliot before he can get the stitches out will surely be interesting, if nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> And that was the initial idea. More to come soon, but this is why I'd love suggestions. If you want to see something happen, tell me! I can't promise to deliver, but if I like the idea, I'll do what I can.
> 
> Also, tomorrow I will have a very long and difficult day at work, so any comments and kudos to bolster me through the day will be very much appreciated.


End file.
